The Climb After The Fall
by Cinnaknowsbest
Summary: Post-Reichenbach two to five part story about the reading of the will and things that Sherlock left for John. And of course, what happens when Sherlock comes back. Fluffy/angsty drabbles or oneshots (not sure which). Completed JOHNLOCK
1. The Will

**I have not uploaded anything in just about forever, so I decided to do the natural thing and post one of the things I wrote while my computer was acting up. The only reason I didn't upload is because I can't upload things from my Ipod and I had no proper computer that wouldn't delete everything before I got the chance to post it. So I'm so very sorry, my dears, but Cinnaknows best has (hopefully) been using her time to get better at writing, 'cuz let's face it, I suck. So please reveiw, follow favorite, anything to show some love! And I will try to get everything I wrote during my absense on here!**

"To John Hamish Watson, I leave everything that I own. Whatever he will take. The rest I leave to my only surviving relative, Mycroft Holmes. The entire second page of this will is, in fact, for him and him alone. John should also receive a strongbox I had made for this specific occasion. It is currently in the possesion of Mycroft Holmes, and all the contents are his once he figures out the word that will unlock it." The thin man reading his best friend's will paused in confusion, and John rolled his eyes, somehow managing to feel exasperated through his pain. Sherlock was testing him, even in death. The man who was reading the will started speaking again.

"The word that opens the box is the name of the thing that mattered most to me when I was living. It will tell you everything you have ever wanted to know about me that I couldn't tell you when I was alive. I dictate that when I am cremated, my ashes will go to my dear Doctor Watson." he paused again.

"Now all these requests are highly unusual. Er...Mr. Holmes, why did your brother give all his belongings to this..."Doctor Watson?"

"My brother and John are...were very close. My brother and I have...had...a very complex relationship. I am actually rather shocked he left me anything."

The rest of the reading went on without John really taking in anything that was said.

*After the reading*

Outside, Mycroft directed him to a nondescript sleek black car, not his usual, and rummaged around for a bit in the back until he found a medium sized black box. He wordlessly handed it to John, his eyes unfocused. John took it just as silently, his eyes trained on Mycroft.

"You know the word that will open this?"

"Yes, but I'm not to tell. You're meant to work it out on your own."

"What's in it?"

"He told me never to tell anyone."

He noticed John's annoyance with a slight smirk.

"Don't worry. It's quite simple to figure out, really."

"From you, that is not very reassuring."

Mycroft smiled slightly. "Not to worry, doctor. You're not nearly as stupid as you were before, and even then, you were fairly clever. It shouldn't take you too long to figure it out. Goodbye, Doctor Watson."

John stared at the box in his hands, reading the inscription in gold letters.

"From Sherlock Holmes to John Hamish Watson..."

"The inscription carries on inside the box." Mycroft said, his dark eyes assessing John. And then he was in his car, being driven off to god knows where.

*a week after the reading*

John was sitting on his usual chair, staring at the urn on the chair opposite and at the box on the table nearby. He had not yet found out how to open the box. He'd had an idea, but if he was right...he wouldn't have been able to take it. But he needed to know what was in the box. He sighed and went over to the box, feeling like an idiot. He was probably wrong. He was standing in front of the box now. He should just get it over with. After all, there was no harm in trying. He'd tried case as the word, but the box hadn't budged. At least he knew the box wasn't going to blow up on him or anything. He grabbed the lock and entered in the letters of his name. John.

The lock clicked open.

John's throat closed on him, and his vision was suddenly obscured by the tears he thought he could hold in but obviously could not. He slowly, carefully raised the lid of the box. Then he saw the rest of the inscription. He read it out, his voice breaking and so filled with pain it was almost undecipherable.

"From Sherlock Holmes to John Hamish Watson...the love of my life"


	2. Opening the Box

_**Author's note: Not going to lie, I cried a little (okay, a lot) writing this.**_

John had not touched the box for two weeks. Hadn't looked at it. Thought about it, yes. Thought about destroying it, pretending it had never existed. He'd also thought about opening it and looking through it, but he couldn't. Every time he tried, he saw the inscription and couldn't get past that. Every time he thought he could, it got worse. It got worse because he knew that were Sherlock watching him, his consulting detective would have been more dissapointed with each failure. And he hated knowing that he was dissapointing Sherlock. So he sat once again looking at the box, wondering what he would find inside as he always did after work. But today, today was the day. He had to open it, stop letting Sherlock down. So he shuffled over to the box and entered his name again, hearing the now familiar click of the lock disengaging. He opened it just as carefully as he had two weeks ago, but nothing new had grown in there, so he gave up on being wary. He saw the inscription again, but he'd promised himself, promised Sherlock he would not cry. Inside, there were two large stacks of papers, letters, it looked like, and beside them was...a box. A tiny one, like the ones you would put jewelery in. He decided against opening that first and instead picked up the first letter. He read it.

_**Hello John. If you are reading this, it means I am dead or I have left and there is no chance whatsoever that I will ever see you again, perhaps under guise of death. If it's the second, I am so sorry, but it was a necessity. Probably to protect you, but I am certain that that's already crossed your mind. You're not nearly as stupid as I always said you were.**_

_**I know I often made you feel as if I didn't care about you, and I am sorry for that as well, and I hope you do understand. Because I couldn't tell you this when I was alive, I will tell you now that I am dead: I love you. I loved you too much, and Moriarty used that against me. You've always fascinated me, and I spent a lot of my time lying and acting so that you wouldn't figure it out. I pretended to not have noticed you leaving the house more times then I actually didn't notice. **_

_**Do you remember when I told you I was married to my work? I'm sure you do, you're not the type of person to forget. Well, I wasn't lying, but it wasn't a happy marriage, not over these last six months and two weeks. For that time I considered you as a mistress of sorts, and then I found that my care for you outweighed my love of my work. Meeting Irene Adler helped me realize that I was not asexual as I thought, helped me realize I loved you. That came as more of a shock to me than the part about you, but it terrified me because I couldn't delete it. I hid it as well as I could, and I think it worked. It's a bit hard to tell, as I've had no experience with it. These letters are all to you. They explain things that I know you were curious about all the time we knew each other. I hope I explained them in a way that you would understand. Other letters are just my thoughts on you. The jewelery box holds a ring. I think it's a wedding ring, I don't know. I knew I would never be able to give it to you because you didn't love me the way I loved you, so I left it for you. It hurts me to write this, because this reminds me that everyone dies, and that someday I will die and I will be alone again, and that you will be alone too. Until you find a replacemnt for me, that is. And then you'll forget about me. Please don't forget, but please don't be sad. I want you to live and be happy and find someone you love, someone you can spend the rest of your life with. Do you think you could do that for me?**_

_**You are the only person who has put up with me for more then a week without kicking me out or moving. Our life together was never dull, and I thank you. You were the only thing keeping me off the drugs, the only thing that stopped me from blowing my brains out from boredom. You may have been an idiot, but you were my idiot and I'm grateful for you putting up with all my random body parts in or on various part of our flat, allowing me a severed head or two and not murdering me when I got bored and became insufferable. Well, more insufferable than usual. I wanted this chance to thank you for everything (especially putting your life in danger for me so many times) because I tried so many times when I was with you, but the right words never came out, or I didn't say anything at all. I tried texting you, but I couldn't get the right words down then, and even when I did I didn't have the courage to send it. I'm sorry I never showed you how much you were appreciated when I was alive. I'm sorry for dragging you around to nearly every dangerous place in London. **_

_**I'm sorry I died.**_

John took the little box and the letter and dropped back into his armchair, feeling sick. He opened the little jewelery box, and even though he had promised Sherlock he wouldn't cry he couldn't have stopped the tears that welled up in his eyes, nor the ones that began making down his face. He thought Sherlock felt no sentiment, something close to nothing for him until two weeks ago, and now he was being shown that he was all that Sherlock had ever cared about. And it hurt, hurt more than it ever should have.

It _was _a wedding ring, a simple gold band with a word carved into it. _Always_. And as he read that, he suddenly realized why it hurt so much. It was in that moment that John realized that he was in love with Sherlock.

_***Sniffles* I'm rubbish at writing these when still crying, so I'll just thank you for reading, favoriting, following and/or reveiwing this, and I will try to finish this as soon as I can.**_


	3. Sherlock the Watcher

**Sherlock**

It had been three weeks since I had jumped. Well, three weeks, two day and x number of hours, minutes and seconds. The date was January 29th, if you were wondering. I'm sure you weren't, because that's not the point of this. The point is this: I hacked a lot of Mycroft's security cameras in 221b Baker Street. I watched John suffering, I watched him open the box. And I watched him cry. A lot. But it's been two days since he opened the box and got the ring I left him, and now I'm remembering, wondering if I did something a bit not good.

I remebered the day he opened the box for the first time. I remembered him walking over to the box and then announcing to the room in general **"Don't you dare laugh at me."** It took me a moment to realize that he was talking to me. He did that sometimes now. Talked to me even though I wasn't there, as if he could tell I was watching. I was too busy watching to reply, as I often did. I resolved to text him later. And then delete the text before I sent it.

He sometimes talked to my skull now as well, which we had agreed on the third day after I had jumped was now named Yorick. Well, he decided that, and since I wasn't there to disagree, he had taken that as agreement. I wonder if that was how he felt around me all the time.

Anyway, that confused me. Why would I laugh? He was right. He was the most important thing. He entered his name, and the box had opened. I should have known just then when he cried that I had done something wrong. I just thought it was because I was his friend and now knowing how I felt for him made him sad. After all, he thought I loved Irene Adler. And so I left that there when he simply closed the box and walked away.

Then I watched him for the two weeks that followed. He'd started drinking. A lot. That worried me. He hated drinking because of everything that had happened with his sister. I didn't think that I'd hurt him that much. I almost texted him right then and there, but I remembered just in time what would happen if I did. I remembered that there were exactly three of the world's deadliest assasins following him around, and that if he got a single letter of text from me he woud be dead. And so I deleted the text I had been about to send him. I was now up to seven deleted texts.

_**Deleted Texts:**_

**To: John Watson**

**John I'm sorry. I know you saw me jump today, but I'm not dead. I swear. Please stop crying! **

**-SH**

**January 13th 11:05 PM**

**To: John Watson**

**Really? Yorick?**

**-SH**

**January 16th 1:59 PM**

**To: John Watson**

**Jooooohn...it's so OBVIOUS! You're the most important thing!**

**-Sh**

**January 17th 3:00 AM**

**To: John Watson**

**I'm alive. Let's have dinner.**

**-SH**

**January 20th 2:36 PM**

**To: John Watson**

**Yeah, that didn't work on me either.**

**-SH**

**January 20th 2:51 PM**

**To: John Watson**

**John, please stop this. I never meant for it to go this far. I promise if you stop drinking, I'll come back, damn the consequences.**

**-SH**

**January 23rd 10:11 pm**

**To: John Watson**

**John? I'm sorry I died. Thank you for believing in me.**

**-SH**

**January 27th 8:19 pm**

_**Sent Texts:**_

**To: Mycroft Holmes**

**I'm alive. Look after him for me. Don't you dare tell him.**

**-SH**

**January 13th 8:30 pm**

_**Recieved Texts:**_

**From: John Watson**

**I don't think this will work at all, but there's no chance that you'll just tell me, is there?**

**-JW**

**Januart 15th 4:00 AM**

**From: John Watson**

**Yeah, didn't think so.**

**-JW**

**January 15th 5:00 AM**

**From: Mycroft Holmes**

**Of course. **

**-MH**

**January 13th 8:37 pm**

**From: Molly Hooper**

**Um. Hello. I'm almost sure you don't use this anymore, but I think you need to know that John's hurt. Um, I think you know that, but...Sherlock I don't believe you're really dead. Nobody does. John is really convinced. So, please, if you're still there, come back. We all believe in you. We all know that you aren't a fake. And... about that thing you told me? About John, about...pretending to be okay in front of him? Thank you for that. Thank you for trusting me.**

**January 16th 5:07 pm**

**From: Mrs. Hudson**

**John left you a cuppa out. Please take it this time.**

**January 24th 12:00 PM**

**From: John Watson**

**Sherlock, you can't be dead. Because you're not a fake, and you know that. There is no way at all that you commited suicide. And damnit, I love you. I don't know how you managed it, but I have a feeling I'm going to have to punch you in the face for it.**

**-JW**

**January 27th 8:05 pm**

**From: Lestrade**

**For God's sake, Sherlock, stop this. Do you even care about the effects your "death" had on him? We all know you didn't kill yourself. Come back.**

**-Lestrade**

**January 29th 3:35 pm**

_**So...Reveiws? Follows? Favorites? Please? You'll get virtual cookies! Oh, and if you have the time, please check out my Fictionpress account and my story, Apocalypses Suck under the pen name The Clockwork Girl. PWEEASE? So um...about this chapter...I don't really like it all that much. I wasn't planning on doing this, but I got the idea at four in the morning to add in both Sherlock's POV and some of the texts he got when he was "dead", and I just had to do it. So, I know it's really really bad, and sorry about that. But thank you to the people who followed, favorited and reviewed. And most of it is just the texts, I know.**_


	4. Coming home

I feel as if I've been beaten for a full two hours with large metal pipes and other assorted blunt instruments. Mostly because I have. The assassins are dead, but I can tell something is wrong with me. They did real damage. I realize I'm bleeding very profusely as I look at the three dead assassins and think about what they represent. John is safe now, but I'm going to die right here in this alley. And that's okay. It was okay because nothing is ever going to hurt them again. That's the last of the assassins dead, and the better part of two years gone.

I just wish I'd had the chance to say goodbye to him. My vision is mostly black and I can't hear much, but I vaguely catch a muffled yell and hear footsteps. I groan to draw his attention to me. Maybe I will live to see John again. And then I hear him speak, and oh.

"Jesus Sherlock."

I opened my eyes and took in John's horrified face. And with that last image, I lost consciousness, knowing I was safe.

* * *

I woke up two days later in the hospital. I felt a bit of pressure on one of my arms and opened my eyes to John sleeping on my arm, obvious tear tracks making their way down his face. I smiled, knowing I would finally be going home soon.

I focused on the obvious numbing effects of some sort of painkiller, pleased that I couldn't feel any of the many broken things in my body. I closed my eyes just as I heard John wake up with a light snort and felt the pressure vanish.

I opened my eyes and just looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since the fall. He looked tired and sick and angry, and I knew that was all my fault. I knew I had hurt him, and I needed him to know I was sorry, he needed to know why I fell.

"John-"

"Don't."

I looked away, not wanting him to see the pain in my eyes, but he quickly corrected my thoughts.

"You'll have time to explain later, once you're better. And i swear to God, Sherlock if you can't explain why you faked suicide and then murdered three people I am going to be very angry."

I watched him for a moment longer.

"I do have a reason. It wasn't just some sick experiment. You should know me better by now than to think that."

"Well, I'm the only person that still doesn't know why you jumped. Mycroft told Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, and it spread from them to Molly. Now even Anderson and Donovan know. Lestrade is really pissed at Mycroft for keeping this from us, by the way. It might help if you impressed upon him how important it was that this was a secret."

"How do they know why? I didn't tell Mycroft. And since when did Mycroft care what Lestrade thinks?"

"I'm assuming he deduced it."

I was beginning to feel tired again, but I decided I would ask my second question again since he had ignored it the first time.

"John."

"Yes?"

"You deliberately ignored my second question. Is there something I should know?"

John didn't meet my gaze, and my vision started blacking out. Belatedly I realized that some sort of tranquilizer was now being fed into my IV.

"It's not my place to tell."

That wasn't an answer!

"That's not an answer." I responded irritably.

The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was John's small teasing smile.

* * *

The first thing I noticed when I woke was Mycroft staring at me from the chair John had occupied a few hours prior. We just looked at each other a few moments before we spoke simultaneously.

"Why do you care what Lestrade thinks about you?"

"Was I right?"

There was silence as we took in what the other had said, but I gave him the look. The one that said "My question is more important, so I will ignore yours until you answer".

My brother avoided my eyes. His mouth twisted into a grimace as he considered his options and all the possible lies he had ready.

"Don't bother lying. Why do you care what he thinks of you?"

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically. "Yes, of course you would keep tabs on all the comings and goings of Doctor Watson and none on your own brother."

"Stop avoiding the question."

"Lestrade is my partner."

I paused to stare a little harder. How in the name of science had I missed that? I blame the tranquilizer for making my mind blank.

"Now answer my question. Was I right about the assassins?"

"Of course you were right. I'm just glad he hadn't the frame of mind to send them after you, else I wouldn't have been able to tell you I was alive."

"Yes, how odd that Moriarty didn't take me into account."

"He did, he simply dismissed you. After all, we aren't exactly the closest of siblings." And I had never regretted holding a grudge against him more than I did in that moment.

He watched me for a few moments, and I knew my regret was written all over my face. I wasn't going to hide it or be ashamed of it anymore. I just didn't have the energy. After a minute he nodded, apparently satisfied with this turn of events.

"Well, I'll let John back in. You'll be discharged just after I have a word with your doctor."

I nodded my thanks and he left, holding the door open for John. We sat in comfortable silence until Mycroft was sent back in for us. The doctor detached me from all the machines and wires and then we were in one of Mycroft's cars on our way home. We were silent for a while and then he had to speak.

"I opened the box."

"I know. I watched you open it."

He was quiet again for a few minutes before asking "Why didn't you get Mycroft to hide it? He told me you texted him, just the once to tell him you weren't dead. Why didn't you tell him to get rid of it then?"

I wasn't planning on answering, but at that moment I looked over at him and had the misfortune of meeting his eyes. He looked so damn tired and confused. And I owed him explanations. I could start with this. i looked away and spent another moment choosing my words carefully.

"I wasn't sure I was going to survive this time. I couldn't guarantee I would come back. Even then, if your life was better without me I wasn't going to return. Either way, I wanted you to know without me having to actually tell you, and I wanted there to be no way that I would need to hear you dismiss my feelings so it seemed best to leave it to you after I died."

John shook his head and I wondered if that was a bit not good.

"When are you going to tell me why you..." he paused to consider his next word. "Left?"

"When we're home and I've had a proper sleep that didn't require me almost dying or being drugged. I'm not pleased about that, by the way. Whose idea was that, by the way?"

He smirked. "Mycroft's obviously."

"Mmm. I should have guessed that."

"Of course. I'll blame the tranq."

"So will I.

We're silent the rest of the ride, but as we leave the car he helps me out and holds the door to 221b Baker St. open for me, and that speaks louder than all the words he could ever say.

_**Sooo...whaddya think? Thanks to those who reveiwed/favorited/followed and please share your thoughts on this. It's almost done, I just have one more chapter to put up. I actually don't like this one, but my opinion doesn't matter. Yours does, so please let me know what you think.**_


	5. Life goes on

_**I'll put this here, because it takes attention away from the ending if I don't- please review this. I've kept you waiting so long, but I hate how i've ended it and I know Sherlock got really OOC at the end, but I didn't want you to wait any longer. I want to thank all of you for following this, the only fic I've ever finished. Yes, this is the end of the climb. I hope you enjoyed it. Now, please. Don't let me keep you.**_

For quite some time all I had ever thought of was getting back home, getting back to John. But now I was back, and I was so confused as to what social protocol dictated I should do. John was reading in his chair. I was standing awkwardly in the doorway, watching him. We were like that for a few minutes before he looked up at me and sighed.

"You can sit down, you know. I don't bite."

He smiled cautiously. I smiled weakly back and sat. He put his book down and focused his attention on me, and I knew what he was waiting for. Even so, I waited a moment to collect my thoughts and wonder if he would accept my explanation.

"On the day I fell, I had arranged to meet Moriarty to end our little game. I had cashed in a favour with an old friend to help me fake my death, because I knew Moriarty would want to end it with one of us dying. I didn't tell you because I wasn't sure what he'd do if he realized you knew. And it's good that I thought that far ahead, because Moriarty sent assassins after you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. If I'd told you anything or even hinted that I was still alive, they were supposed to kill you. You had three assassins after you. When you found me, I had just killed the last three assassins, and I was pretty sure I wasn't going to make it. And then you showed up. Good timing on your part, by the way. Anyway, like I said yesterday, I wasn't sure if I would make it back, so I called you and left you my 'note'. I hadn't realized that you had feelings for me until you texted me, and so I thought it would be best if I didn't even hint that I was still alive. I assumed you would be able to move on. I was obviously wrong."

As I explained, I noted subtle changes in his expression. It went from closed to slightly open. Only slightly, but I knew that was all I would get for now. It didn't matter. I had the rest of our time together to get his forgiveness, and I was prepared to wait forever for him.

* * *

As it turns out, I only had to wait a month to be forgiven.

I had just woken up from my customary nightmare (Moriarty and I on the rooftop, John being executed as I fell) and was sitting on my bed, trying to calm my heartbeat by doing breathing exercises when I heard the door to my room open.

Forgetting where I was, I rolled off of my bed and grabbed my gun at the same time (a very extensively practiced movement) and pointed it at a very surprised John Watson.

I sighed with relief and collapsed back ono my bed, gasping again.

"Sorry John. Reflex. Had to be prepared to defend myself at any moment when I was gone."

"It's okay. I probably shouldn't be in here anyway; it's just that you were...you were screaming. My name...and I just thought...it's okay. I'll go now." He turned to leave, but I didn't want him to go. I wanted him to stay.

"Please don't go." The words slipped out without my permission. He paused, but I could see with the way he held himself that he was going to go anyway.

_"Please. Don't leave me." _I flinched at the desperation in my voice, but it seemed to work. He turned and looked at me, amazed.

"Well I can't refuse that." He sat down at the edge of my bed, his eyes gentler than I had ever seen them. "You're crying." He reached out and stroked my cheek softly. I nodded, taking another shuddering breath.

"Nightmare?"

I nodded again.

"I'd ask what about, but I think I know."

He had no idea.

I closed my eyes and he did what I knew he would. He lay down on the bed with me and took me in his arms gently, running his fingers through my hair to calm me.

"It's okay. I'm here, I'm alive, I'm okay, and so are you."

"You almost weren't."

"You almost weren't too, so don't give me that."

"I don't matter, John."

"You matter to me." he growled, giving me the death-glare of the century (in my opinion, at least). He would have gotten an award for it, if such an award had existed.

"Not all that much."

It was true. He'd always find someone else, some Jane Doe(or John Doe) to occupy his time, and then he would forget. They were always there, the Janes and Marys and other women of various names and he was always choosing them over me. I hated them all, and made no secret of it. He didn't care, of course, but I told him anyway. Just in case he suddenly started caring about my opinion. He hadn't.

He sat up, shaking his head irritably.

"You really think that, don't you? After everything we've done together, you still think you don't matter. And absolutely nothing I tell you will change your mind, I assume."

"One thing might." he stood, sighing with exasperation, and left me there.

I was living my nightmare. He was never going to forgive me, and eventually he would begin to question why the hell he stayed by my side. Eventually he would find some pretty girl and marry her and they would leave me behind and he would forget that I loved him.

The morning after, I didn't want to drag myself out of bed for another pointless day alive wallowing in the odd mix his hate and pity. So I did something really stupid which, I swear, made sense at the time. I loaded my pistol and pressed the cold steel of the weapon to my temple, fully intending to embed a bullet deep in my brain. Living was pointless, and I figured John would get over me easier if I wasn't present when he found someone else. And I would absolutely not leave him. So death was the only way out.

Fortunately, at that moment John entered my room and got the shock of his lifetime. I hadn't consciously closed my eyes or started crying, but both those things had happened. My eyes snapped open at his comical shocked gasp.

"Really John. I don't see why you're acting so shocked. Suicidal attempts are not that uncommon." I felt more tears welling up in my eyes. "Certainly not under circumstances such as our own."

"You bastard. You stupid selfish lazy bastard! You were going to leave me again."

"Do you blame me?"

"Why the hell wouldn't I?"

"You know exactly why I'm doing this. You also know how to fix it. But you can't. It's not your fault. I actually rather think it's mine."

"So you're just going to off yourself?"

"It's a perfectly logical state of affairs. You won't ever forgive me, and eventually you will begin to question why you are still here. You will then seek to remedy that. I am simply helping you on your way."

He shook his head. "So you think I'm just going to forget you after you kill yourself."

"Yes." I rolled my eyes and removed the safety. His eyes flicked towards the gun and I could almost feel him weighing his options. Should he attempt to disarm me, or should he talk until I put the gun down? I gave him a look, a look that taunted him, told him exactly what I would do if he so much as moved around too much. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered if I was completely off my head. I realized I didn't care.

I wanted to kill myself, but I would hear John out, because I respected his opinion on this matter. I'd still do it, but...

"Sherlock. Put the gun down." His eyes flicked back to it. I didn't move, just gave him the look again.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't realize..."

Was he apologizing? No, that was wrong! He shouldn't be sorry for anything!

"Why are you apologizing?"

"I convinced you that I hated you and would never forgive you. People apologize after something like that."

"Why bother apologizing? You know what you have to say to get me to be okay. Say it, and apologies are irrelevant. Don't say it, and I stop breathing."

"I-I forgive you." I could see panic in his eyes as they flicked back to the gun. I could see his thoughts as clearly as if he'd spoken them. _Is he going to kill himself anyway? I can't let him, he can't leave me again!_

I lowered the gun and put the safety on before I set it down on the bed, keeping my eyes focused on his. I gave him a nod and we left the room together.

We never mentioned the incedent, but after that, things changed. He and I started partaking in an actual relationship. We didn't have to discuss it or anything. It just happened naturally.

In a month, everyone knew. In five months, we were engaged. In a year, we were married.

It's been forty years since. We've grown old together, something I never expected would happen. We've retired. I took up beekeeping two years ago after breaking a tiny part of my spine and losing use of my legs. John's been taking care of me since. He still does a little bit of work at the surgery, but we mostly live off the money Mycroft sends us. I consult with multiple DIs now from home, or if we're in London, they let me onto crime scenes.

I've lived a good life with my John. We have two sons, Hamish and Sherrinford. Hamish is thirty-two and happily married. Sherrinford is twenty three and just getting out of university. We have two grandchildren. Twin girls, four years old.

Mycroft and Lestrade are married too. I was Mycroft's best man, something I find myself incredibly proud of. How odd. We have a neice and a nephew, Paul and Clara Holmes-Lestrade.

It's been great. I mean, sure, there are times when I miss what I had before. Sometimes I miss walking, sometimes I miss chasing criminals through the crowded streets of (or over the rooftops of, through the sewers of) London.

I know I can't complain. I've had a better life than most people my age have had. My life now isn't even that bad now.

You must think I get bored. I don't. I've got my family, I've got my little winged friends, I've got my John. I haven't been bored for forty years. I have no regrets ending this story here.

So thank you for sitting through this and listening to me, but I really do think it's time for me to say goodbye.

-SH

PS: We wouldn't have done it any other way.

-JW & SH


End file.
